


Old habits, new habits

by Winga



Category: EOS 10 (Podcast)
Genre: a then and now comparison short piece, drug induced orgy mentioned too, remembering drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6788896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winga/pseuds/Winga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He used to be a different man than he is now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old habits, new habits

**Author's Note:**

> title is, surprisingly, a prompt I wrote this for

Before, he took the needle to his arm and pumped his veins full of drugs, the names of which he was sometimes unsure of. He knew they were _good_ , they felt _good_. He probably knew what they consisted of, but some names changed faster than his brain wanted to run, and he bought them with the old name on his lips and a shake of head as a response.

Now, his fingers dig into his palm when it’s overbearing, when he knows that he can’t do the same again. He wants to taste what he’s heard called _Ghostberry_ , he craves it, but he knows he can’t do that again. His palm hurts but it’s worth it and slowly, slowly, by picking everything apart, he grounds himself in this moment. He whispers a mantra, words that mean nothing combined and then he returns to what he is doing.

Before, he lied to his mother when she managed to somehow find him and told her he was getting clean and that of course everything was right. He lied to his father who contacted him once a rotation, told him that he was going back to find work and that soon he would have something to be proud of, someone to be proud of. He lied and he lied and he lied. It was so easy to spit out lies when he knew that afterwards he could get high and nothing would mean anything anymore.

Now, he leaves things unsaid. He forgets that he should probably open up to people more, but he doesn’t think it’s their business to know what he does with his life. What he did with his life. He knows it’s the wrong way to go, he learns it with doctor Urvidian, but he continues. He speaks the truth but he doesn’t tell how he got here, unless he has to share. He knows he needs to learn to open up. But it’s not the time, not yet. He’s not quite there yet.

Before, he sometimes, too often, slept in a bed full of people, dirty, drugged out of their minds. They were entwined sometimes but usually naked when he woke up. He rarely knew their names, or their real names, and they called him by names that he didn’t know were his. They kissed him with rough lips and their hands travelled his skin when they had had a hit, and everything felt so right. But in the morning, if he had sobered up, it was all so wrong. Then there would be a few days in between and he’d be craving another body next to him and finding himself in the wrong company, accompanied by Apple and John and Electric Light.

Now, he often sleeps alone, and he doesn’t mind. It feels refreshing to have the bed to himself, to not have it crowded with people he doesn’t know. When there’s someone, it’s always the same person and he knows his name, whispers it every time he comes to bed with him. When he sleeps with him, they smile and they cuddle and they laugh. They talk and he repeats his name over and over again. They both repeat each other’s names. And he feels so lucky when he wakes up next to him and he feels so right. When he wakes up, he whispers _good morning Akmazian_ into the other’s ear and kisses him awake.


End file.
